and Diomedes was torn two ways—he’d half a mind
to turn the team and take him face-to-face ...
Three times Tydides was tempted, heart and soul,
three times from the crags of Ida Zeus let loose his thunder,
the Master Strategist handing down a sign to the Trojans—
victory thunder turning the tide of war their way.
And Hector called to his men in a ringing voice,
“Trojans! Lycians! Dardan fighters hand-to-hand-
now be men, my friends, call up your battle-fury!
The Father nods his head in assent, I see, at last
he grants me glory, triumph—the Argives, bloody death.
Fools, erecting their rampart! Flimsy and futile,
not worth a second thought.
They’ll never hold me back in my onslaught now,
with a bound my team will leap that trench they dug.
But soon as I reach their hollow ships, torches—
don’t forget now, one of you bring me lethal fire!
I’ll bum their ships, I’ll slaughter all their men,
Argive heroes panicked in smoke along their hulls!”
And with that threat he called out to his horses,
“Golden and Whitefoot, Blaze and Silver Flash!
Now repay me for all the loving care Andromache,
generous Eetion’s daughter, showered on you aplenty.
First of the teams she gave you honey-hearted wheat,
she even mixed it with wine for you to drink
when the spirit moved her—before she’d serve me,
though I’m proud to say I am her loving husband.
After them, fast, full gallop! So we can seize
the shield of Nestor—its fame hits the skies,
solid gold, the handgrips and the shield itself—
and strip from the stallion-breaking Diomedes’ back
the burnished armor Hephaestus forged with all his skill.
If only we lay our hands on these, I’m filled with hope
they’ll take to their racing ships this very night!”
So he gloried but Queen Hera stirred in outrage,
she shook on her throne and Mount Olympus quaked
as she cried in the face of the rugged god Poseidon,
“You ruthless—the Earth-shaker with all your power—
not even a twinge of pity deep inside your heart
for all these Argives dying! The same fighters
who pile your gifts at Aegae port and Helice,
gifts by the shipload, hoards to warm your heart.
And you used to plan their victory! If only we,
we gods who defend the Argives had the will to hurl
the Trojans back and hold off thundering Zeus—
there he would sit and smolder,
throned in desolate splendor up on Ida.”
Deeply shaken, the god who rocks the earth replied,
“Hera, what wild words! What are you saying?
I for one have no desire to battle Zeus,
not you and I and the rest of the gods together.
The King is far too strong—he’ll crush us all.”
So they harangued each other to a standstill.
But as for Achaea’s forces, all the ground
that the broad trench enclosed from ships to wall
was crammed with chariots, teams and men in armor
packed into close quarters, yes, and the one man
who packed them there, a match for rushing Ares,
Hector the son of Priam, now Zeus gave Hector glory.
And now he might have gutted the ships with fire,
blazing fire—but Queen Hera impelled Agamemnon,
out on the run already, to go and rouse his men.
He made his way through Achaea’s ships and shelters,
flaring his great crimson cape with a strong hand
and stopped at Odysseus’ huge black-bellied hull,
moored mid-line so a shout could reach both wings,
upshore to Telamonian Ajax’ camp or down to Achilles’—
trusting so to their arms’ power and battle-strength
they’d hauled their trim ships up on either flank.
Agamemnon’s cry went piercing through the army:
“Shame! Disgrace! You Argives, you degraded—
splendid in battle dress, pure sham!
Where have the fighting taunts all gone? That time
you vaunted you were the finest force on earth—
all that empty bluster you let fly at Lemnos,
gorging yourselves on longhorn cattle meat
and drunk to the full on brimming bowls of wine,
bragging how each man could stand up to a hundred,
no, two hundred Trojan fighters in pitched battle.
Now our whole army is no match for one, for Hector—
he’ll gut our ships with blazing fire at any moment!
Father Zeus, when did you ever strike a mighty king
with such mad blindness—then tear away his glory?
Not once,
I swear, did I pass some handsome shrine of yours,
sailing my oar-swept ship on our fatal voyage here,
but on each I burned the fat and thighs of oxen,
longing to raze Troy’s sturdy walls to the roots.
So, Father, at least fulfill this prayer for me:
let the men escape with their lives if nothing else—
don’t let these Trojans mow us down in droves!“
So he prayed
and the Father filled with pity, seeing Atrides weep.
The god bent his head that the armies must be saved,
not die in blood. That instant he launched an eagle—
truest of Zeus’s signs that fly the skies—a fawn
clutched in its talons, sprung of a running doe,
but he dropped it free beside the handsome shrine
where Achaean soldiers always sacrificed to Zeus
whose voice rings clear with omens. Seeing the eagle
sent their way from Zeus, they roused their war-lust,
flung themselves on the Trojans with a vengeance.
There,
massed in formation as they were, not a single man
could claim he outstripped Diomedes, Tydeus’ son
lashing his high-strung team across the trench
to reach the front and battle hand-to-hand-
the first by far to kill a Trojan captain,
Agelaus the son of Phradmon. He’d just turned
his chariot round in flight and once he’d swerved
Diomedes’ spear went punching through his back,
gouging his shoulder blade and driving through his chest—
he spilled from the chariot, armor clanging against him.
Diomedes plowed on and after him came the Atridae,
Agamemnon and Menelaus, following in their wake
the Great and Little Ajax armed in fury,
Idomeneus after them and Idomeneus’ good aide,
Meriones, a match for the butcher god of war,
Eurypylus after them, Euaemon’s gallant son,
and Teucer came up ninth, tensing his reflex bow
and lurking under the wall of giant Ajax’ shield.
As Ajax raised the rim, the archer would mark a target,
shoot through the lines—the man he hit dropped dead
on the spot—and quick as a youngster ducking under
his mother’s skirts he’d duck under Ajax’ shield
and the gleaming shield would hide him head to toe.
Who was the first Trojan the marksman Teucer hit?
Orsilochus first, then Ormenus, Ophelestes,
Daetor and Chromius, princely Lycophontes,
Polyaemon’s son Amopaon and Melanippus too—
corpse on corpse he dropped to the earth that rears us all.
An
d King Agamemnon, thrilled at the sight of Teucer
whipping arrows off his bow, reaping the Trojan ranks,
strode up and sang his praises: “Teucer, lovely soldier,
Telamon’s son, pride of the armies—now you’re shooting!
You’ll bring a ray of hope to your men, your father too.
He raised you when you were little, a bastard boy,
no matter—Telamon tended you in his own house.
Far off as he is, you’ll set him up in glory.
I tell you this, so help me it’s the truth:
if Zeus with his storm-shield and Queen Athena
ever let me plunder the strong walls of Troy,
you are the first, the first after myself—
I’ll place some gift of honor in your hands,
a tripod, or purebred team with their own car
or a fine woman to mount and share your bed.”
And Teucer gave his captain a faultless answer:
“Great field marshal, why bother to spur me on?
I go all-out as it is.
With all the power in me I’ve never quit,
not from the time we rolled them back to Troy.
I’ve stalked with my bow and picked them off in packs.
Eight arrows I’ve let fly, with long sharp barbs,
and all stuck in the flesh of soldiers quick to fight—
but I still can’t bring this mad dog Hector down!”
The archer loosed a fresh shaft from the bowstring
straight for Hector, his spirit longing to hit him—
but he missed and cut Gorgythion down instead,
a well-bred son of Priam, a handsome prince,
and the arrow pierced his chest, Gorgythion
whom Priam’s bride from Aesyme bore one day,
lovely Castianira lithe as a deathless goddess . . .
As a garden poppy, burst into red bloom, bends,
drooping its head to one side, weighed down
by its full seeds and a sudden spring shower,
so Gorgythion’s head fell limp over one shoulder,
weighed down by his helmet.
Quick with another arrow,
the archer let fly from his bowstring straight for Hector,
his spirit straining to hit him—shot and missed again
as Apollo skewed his shaft—
but he leveled Archeptolemus, Hector’s daring driver
charging headlong, caught him square in the chest
beside the nipple and off his car he pitched
as his horses balked, rearing, pawing the air.
There on the spot his strength and life collapsed
and blinding grief for the driver overpowered Hector,
stunned for his friend but he left him lying there
and cried out to his brother Cebriones close by,
“Take the reins!” Cebriones rushed to obey—
but Hector leapt down from the burnished car,
he hit the earth with a yell, seized a rock
and went for Teucer, mad to strike the archer
just plucking a bitter arrow from his quiver,
notching it on the string and drawing back the bow
to his right shoulder, when Hector, helmet flashing,
caught him where the collarbone bridges neck and chest,
the deadliest spot of all. There Hector struck,
hurling the jagged rock at Teucer drawing in fury—
snapped the string and his hand went numb at the wrist,
he dropped to a knee, dazed . . . the bow slipped from his grip.
But giant Ajax would never fail his fallen brother—
he ran to straddle and hide him with his shield
as a brace of comrades shouldered up the fighter:
Echius’ son Mecisteus helping good Alastor
bore him back to the hollow warships, groaning hard.
And again the Olympian Father fired up the Trojans
ramming Argives back against their own deep trench.
Hector far in the lead, bristling in all his force
like a hound that harries a wild boar or lion—
hot pursuit, snapping quick at his heels,
hindquarters and flanks but still on alert
for him to wheel and fight—so Hector harried
the long-haired Argives, killing the last stragglers,
man after lagging man and they, they fled in panic.
Back through stakes and across the trench they fled,
and hordes were cut down at the Trojans’ hands—the rest,
only after they reached the shipways, stood fast
and shouting out to each other, flung their arms
to all the immortals, each man crying out a prayer.
But Hector swerved his horses round at the trench’s edge,
wheeling back and forth, tossing their gorgeous manes,
with Hector’s eyes glaring bright as a Gorgon’s eyes
or Ares‘, man-destroying Ares’.
A total rout—
and white-armed Hera saw it, and filled with pity
the goddess’ words went winging toward Athena:
“Look, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder—
don’t we care for them any longer? All our Argives
dying there in droves! This is our last chance.
They’re filling out their fates to the last gasp,
hacked to pieces under a single man’s assault.
This maniac, Hector—I cannot bear him any longer.
Look at the savage slaughter he has made!”
Eyes blazing,
Athena answered, “Let him die a thousand deaths!—
Hector’s life and his battle-frenzy blotted out
by the Argives here on Hector’s native soil.
But Father rages now, that hard black heart,
always the old outrage, dashing all my plans!
Not a thought for the many times I saved his son
Heracles, worked to death by the labors of Eurystheus.
How he would whine to the high skies—till Father Zeus
would rush me down from the clouds to save his life.
If only I’d foreseen all this, I and my cunning—
that day Eurystheus sent him down to Death,
to the lord who guards the gates, to drag up
from the dark world the hound of grisly Death—
he would never have fled the steep cascading Styx.
But Zeus hates me now. He fulfills the plans of Thetis
who cupped his chin in her hand and kissed his knees,
begging Zeus to exalt Achilles scourge of cities.
But the day will come when Father, well I know,
calls me his darling gray-eyed girl again.
So now you harness the racing team for us
while I go into the halls of storming Zeus
and buckle on my gear and arm for combat.
Now I’ll see if Hector, for all his flashing helmet,
leaps for joy when the two of us come blazing forth
on the passageways of battle—or one of his Trojans too
will glut the dogs and birds with his fat and flesh,
The Iliad Page 33
